by Blake Pierce
As they filed out into the aisle, Adele said, quickly, "One last thing; you mentioned you've been talking about a ball. Which one?"
All three of the girls glanced back at her. The American said, "Masque Cielo—the one hosted by Compagnia dei Cielo. That was what we were most excited about. It's tomorrow, now that we're nearing the end of the festival. Why? Is that important?”
Adele gave a quick shake of her head. "Just asking, I'll let you know if we find anything."
The girls filed one by one out of the seats into the aisle and began to follow after the Italian officer up towards the exit to the theater. Adele stood by the stage for a moment longer, in the acoustically reverberating room. Beneath her breath, she said, "That's the same ball Lorraine was going to go to," Adele said softly.
John frowned, crossing his arms and just nodding once.
Adele closed her eyes a moment, ignoring the stage behind her, and the empty audience forum. She ignored the three bereft women walking up the aisle, relieved to escape the pressure from the questioning. She considered the two young victims. Both of them beautiful, both of them with friends both of them wearing masks they hadn't bought. Both of them intent on visiting Masque Cielo towards the end of the festival.
A pattern was emerging—she just wasn't sure exactly how to connect the dots.
And if she didn't figure it out soon, someone else was going to pay a heavy price. On top of it, though, what had John been thinking? She frowned as she opened her mouth to speak, her expression darkening as she turned to her partner, feeling a jolt of frustration shooting through her chest.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As the last of Rebekah's friends filed out of the theater, following the police officer, Adele snapped, “What was that?”
John blinked, leaning on the edge of the theater, and scratching one ear. “Huh?”
“You were grilling those girls. They're not suspects.”
“I... We're supposed to question them, Adele.”
“Yeah, but you were giving them the third degree. What gives?”
She crossed her arms, facing where his long legs stretched from the edge of the stage to the well-swept floor. He scratched at his jaw for a moment, shifting so that his weapon revealed beneath the edge of his jacket, holstered on his hip. Somehow, as if given a bit of confidence by the reveal of his sidearm, John found his voice and said, quietly, “Maybe you're right.”
She blinked, expecting almost anything but this. “I—yes... I am?”
John rubbed his chin, closing his eyes for a moment and sighing. “I hate it, Adele. I hate this whole damn business. But especially when young women are concerned. It... It gives me the creeps.” He shivered, glancing off and trailing one large finger along the edge of the stage.
Adele watched where her partner reclined, his feet still loose beneath him, facing the empty audience seats. For a moment, it struck her how odd of a setting this was, in the heart of an old theater in Venice, facing John Renee, without a witness around.
Her eyes traced his scar, up to his deep gaze which was fascinated, it seemed, by the extending crimson drapes framing either side of the stage.
“God damn it Adele,” John said, closing his trailing hand into a fist and slamming it against one of his knees. “It's just not right—it isn't... I... I hate it is all.” He shrugged, his fist still clenched.
Adele felt her annoyance flit away, watching the tall Frenchman grapple with his emotions. John was no stranger to loss and pain, but he was also a gentleman of a sort—hidden beneath more quills than a porcupine—though he hated to admit it, and though there were some who might belittle him for it.
Adele wasn't such a person. She approached her old partner, sitting on the stage next to him, her shoulder brushing his as she also stared out across the red seats facing the stage. An empty audience, and yet, as she witnessed the expensive sitting area and her eyes traced up to the second-floor balcony, jutting over the back portion near the fire-escapes, Adele felt a flicker of unease in her stomach.
Not a strong sense, but a brief reminder.
When she'd first found herself at the DGSI, nearly a decade ago, she'd had a similar sensation stepping onto her first crime scene. The same feeling had returned the previous month, when she'd been investigating a killer that was hunting wealthy women who owned homes in Southern France.
Now, though, sitting on the stage, her shoulder against John's, she found the sensation ebb and flow away, as if somehow fleeing her presence. Or, perhaps, fleeing the two of them.
“I get it,” she murmured. “I do... trust me. But they're not suspects. I can guarantee that.”
“We don't know, though, do we. Just another damn part of the job. The constant second-guessing. You never really know, do you?” He sighed, and then glanced at her. “Was that bastard really across from your apartment? He had a camera?”
Adele didn't react at first, considering how much she wanted to bring him in on. John was an ally, a friend... more.
But at the same time, while she'd decided she couldn't protect everyone from the Spade killer, did she really want to drag him into this? It felt somehow... personal now in a way it hadn't before.
Because you're not approaching this as an agent. The words echoed in her mind, loud like an internal voice.
Perhaps it was true, though. What would she have done if she'd managed to get her hands on the small bastard back in his apartment? Would she have called anyone at all?
It scared her that she didn't know the answer.
“He set up a camera,” Adele said, quietly. “Watching my apartment. I was able to track it back to the rental unit. He got away before I could grab him. I fell through the floor.”
“Trapped?”
“Yeah. He's a slippery one. I'll give him that.”
“I should've killed him,” John muttered. “That one time. I almost had him. Small little monkey got away.”
“Yeah—he slipped me too. It is what it is.”
Adele sighed, glancing off. She felt something warm against her hand, where it trailed on the edge of the stage. She looked down, to see John's large hand was now next to hers, his finger grazing hers, trailing for a moment, as if afraid she might jerk back.
She smiled softly, and left her hand where it was, staring out at the empty theater—a welcome juxtaposition to the mayhem, and crowds of the Venetian roads during the festival. No loud sounds, no wild music, no laughter or cheering, no hullabaloo... Just quiet; a large, expansive quiet.
And John at her side.
“Adele,” he said, softly.
“Hmm?”
“I wanted to tell you something,” he murmured. “Something... something I've been thinking a lot about. A lot.”
“You're not going to propose to me, are you?”
“Psh. You wish. Marriage is death.”
“Nice to hear the romantic in you.”
“I'm romantic. I am. What? Don't look at me like that. No—hey, don't roll your eyes. Remember that time I saved your life?”
“Psh. That's not romantic. You shot a man above me. Some of his blood got in my hair.”
“Romantic,” John said, nodding. “True romance. You just don't appreciate the arts.”
Adele snorted, leaning against John's shoulder. She realized he hadn't said what he'd been about to. She also realized she wasn't sure she cared too much. Whatever it was, it could wait. In that moment, in the heart of the empty theater, surrounded by the waters of Venice, she was simply glad to be next to him.
As these thoughts rose within her, her phone suddenly began to ring.
Adele sighed and she felt John's hand jerk instinctively away from hers, the warmth leaving, allowing her to reach into her pocket. He looked at her as she pulled her phone and answered, “Leoni?”
“Adele?” said the voice on the other end. “Hey, I've got bad news I'm afraid.”
Adele winced. “Lorraine Strasser's phone records?” she guessed.
Leoni's voice carried c
hagrin. “Unfortunately, nothing. Whoever our second victim's mystery man was, they must have communicated some other way.”
“Email?” Adele guessed.
“We'll look into it, but it's going to be harder than the phone records. Sorry Adele.”
“It's fine....” Adele paused, clearing her throat briefly. She frowned. “Say, Christopher, put a pin in that. I had another thought.”
John was watching her with interest now, studying her as her brow furrowed and she said, “I—I actually think we found a connection between the two victims. We were just speaking with Rebekah's friends... Both victims, it seems, were intent on visiting the same masquerade ball. Know anything about it?”
“Which one? There are usually a few towards the end of the festival.”
“Oh. Well, they said it had something to do with the theater crowd. Both victims seemed to be interested in the performing arts in fact.”
“Right, that'd be the Masque Cielo. What about it?”
“Any chance we could get a guest list for it?”
There was a pause. Adele winced. Nothing good ever followed such a pause. Leoni hesitantly said, “I—I suppose. But Adele, these things are attended by hundreds. Some anonymous.”
“There has to be a front end, though. Somewhere they purchase the tickets, no? Who could we contact about that?”
“Well... Yes, I think so. If I remember correctly, that particular ball is actually being coordinated by one of the more prestigious acting troops in Venice. Name of Compagnia dei Cielo. They're a bit of a big deal in Italy. Deep roots, some still patronized by big money, if you catch my drift.”
“So this Compagnia dei Cielo, can we get the records of their ticket purchases? Anyone who has a ticket to attend their masquerade ball.”
“The ball isn't for a few more days, from what I remember,” Leoni replied. “But I can check. Just keep in mind—they're a big deal. They're not going to appreciate the prying. And like I said, they have wealthy friends.”
“And wealthy means powerful,” Adele said, supplying the unspoken contingency. “Great. Well, if you can do it on the quiet, I'd be obliged.”
Another pause and another sinking feeling in Adele's gut. But then, Leoni replied, “I'll see what I can do Adele. Hang tight, keep your phone on.”
“Thanks, Christopher.”
Adele hung up, glancing at John.
“Was that Christopher?” John said in a would-be innocent tone.
“Agent Leoni,” Adele said, without taking the bait, “is looking into a guest list for the masquerade ball both victims were going to attend.”
“I see. He seems like he'd be good going through files.”
“What does that mean?”
John shrugged. “Nothing.”
Adele frowned at the Frenchman, but then again refused to push the point. “The killer might have access to the guest list,” Adele said, shrugging. “Or maybe he's choosing them some other way. Whatever the case, it's the only connection we have right now.”
“Good thinking. At the very least perhaps it will help us narrow down our suspects by determining who has access to the list.”
“That...” Adele said, frowning and then pushing off the stage, dusting the back of her pants. “Or it might help narrow down our list of potential victims. Guaranteed, one way or another, this guy isn't done dropping bodies.”
John pushed off the stage as well and brushed past her, moving up the aisle. “Well, while Leoni is doing that, did he tell us who has the list for the ball?”
“A Compagnia dei Cielo,” Adele said. “Some acting troop with deep pockets, apparently.”
John wrinkled his nose. “Sounds pretentious.”
“That's a big word.”
He tapped his nose, pointing at her. “I'm not just a pretty face, Agent Sharp. Don't you forget it. Speaking of pretty, let's see if we can beat that underwear model of yours to the punch.” Still pointing at her, he backed up and then turned, marching towards the exit without waiting for her to follow.
“Beat him to the—what?”
John shrugged, and without glancing back, called, “If they're an acting troop, they have a theater or office. Like this one, maybe. How hard can it be to find them?” He paused next to the exit and frowned at her. “You coming?”
Adele supposed it made sense. There was no point waiting for Christopher to track down his own information. What could it hurt, anyway?
She'd never investigated the organizer of a masquerade ball before.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It turned out, the organizer of the Masque Cielo wasn't to be found in a theater, but rather lodged in the top floor of a dusty, molding old building overlooking a row of dumpsters somewhere, in Adele's opinion, that was likely the armpit of Venice.
The interior of the office for the Compagnia dei Cielo, though, seemed a venture in opposites. Where outside, the building had water damage and black mold growth, inside the halls were pristine and lined with marble and smooth limestone.
Where outside, Adele and John had moved past a row of small mopeds—two of them missing wheels—inside, a large, bright chandelier illuminated the pristine and polished space.
Outside, someone had been peeing in an alley, while inside, two butlers in immaculate black and purple suits were standing on either side of the room, next to honest-to-goodness statues of marble lions facing the doorway.
Adele slowly stowed her identification under the scrutiny of one such attendee who cleared his throat delicately, spun on a perfectly polished shoe and gestured a white gloved hand for her to follow, wiggling his fingers like someone summoning a puppy.
Adele shared a look with John as she followed after the man.
He led them to a pure glass elevator. Surrounding the elevator, a floor to ceiling, chambered aquarium stretched from the ground.
The immaculately dressed attendee pressed the button, waiting patiently. As the elevator arrived, he said something in Italian lost on Adele.
She just nodded and followed him into the elevator, waiting for the same white-gloved hand to tap the button to the top floor.
Then, the elevator began to rise, smoothly, lifting through the chute of water and fish swimming about in the rectangular aquarium around them.
“Pretentious,” John said, hiding the word in a sneeze.
“Shut up,” she whispered.
“Just saying,” he muttered.
The attendee said something else as the elevator dinged and again, Adele just nodded. The attendee repeated the Italian phrase, a bit more insistently this time.
Adele winced and tapped her ear. “English?” she said.
The butler stared blankly at her.
“German?” she tried.
More blank, and now mildly judgmental staring.
“French?” she attempted finally.
At this, the butler actually sneered and gave a little roll of his eyes before wiggling his gloved fingers in a shooing motion towards the door as they slid slowly open.
“Hang on, what was that?” John said, frowning. Adele grabbed at him, tugging his arm and leading him out of the elevator. “Wait, why did he make that face at French.” John raised his voice, though he did allow Adele to guide him away. “Right back at you!” he said. “Better France than this water-logged hellhole! Hear me? Hey—you, glove-boy, learn a real language!”
The elevator doors closed again, and the light above began to blink, suggesting it was lowering once more. John stood seething now, Adele gripping his forearm.
“John,” she said, pressing her lips. “Could you calm down, please?”
“Calm? I am calm. You calm down.”
John yanked his arm away from her and marched towards two pristine silver doors etched with gold filigree, again flanked by two marble statues—this time of tigers instead of lions. Adele stared at the sealed doors, feeling like she'd been ushered into a boardroom instead of a small office for an acting company.
She remembered Leoni's adm
onishment. Compagnia dei Cielo had connections... and wealth.
“Into the lion's den,” she murmured beneath her breath, reaching for one handle.
“Tiger's,” John said, grabbing the other.
Together, they pulled open the door.
If they'd been intending to catch the occupants off guard, the effort would have been an abject failure. The attendees downstairs, no doubt, had already warned the occupants of their arrival.
And now, at the end of a long, glass table, beneath a black, sixty-inch television, five figures were staring directly at them.
Adele went stiff, clearing her throat slowly.
All five of the onlookers looked like they'd wandered off the pages of a Hollywood's “Sexiest Alive” list.
Two men and three women were sitting in padded leather chairs. One of the women in particular sat at the head of the table, in a chair just a smidgen larger than the others. Though perhaps this was just Adele's imagination.
“Do any of you speak a real language?” John called out in French, completely unaffected, it seemed, by the severe attention of all five figures.
Adele winced, resisting the urge to elbow her partner. “What he means to say, is does anyone speak English? French?”
The woman who sat furthest from them in the largest chair, directly beneath the television above was frowning over steepled fingers. She had sheets of paper in front of her, and two of the other people in the room seemed to be presenting her a photo book of images that Adele couldn't make out from so far away.
One of the men, a silver-haired fellow that looked a bit like George Clooney, leaned in, whispering something in the seated woman's ear.
“What is DGSI doing here?” the woman at the front of the table said in English, still peering over steepled fingers. She spoke like a queen addressing her subjects, all impatience and ice.